A slightly skewed perspective on The Middle Ages

“Not so bad. The thermometer hasn’t blown out the bottom end yet, the bears haven’t moved into town to feast on the inhabitants, and I haven’t had to deal with any sneezified menus lately. How about yourself?”

“Um, well … Ornesta, may I come live at your house for a while?”

“Sure, Sweetie! We can put you up in the ice shanty out back. Bud won’t need it until the Gitch* freezes over, and that won’t happen for a few weeks yet. You’ll have your own private commode too, even if it does have a little moon carved out of the door. What’s the problem? Hubby being mean to you?”

“No, no. The hubby’s always good to me. I can’t complain — even if he can’t figure out how to use the phones around the house without disconnecting himself.”

“How about the teenager? Is she running wild all over town?”

“No, not that either. The closest Beebee ever comes to running wild is to saunter down Main Street in Little Chute with her guitar strapped to her back.”

“Little Chute! What does she go there for? It’s full of Hollanders!”

“She’s got a friend that lives there — not Hollander, either. But — what’s wrong with Hollanders? We’re all either Hollanders or Krauts down here. If you stick a bratwurst in each of our fists, you can’t tell us apart. We all talk like Yoopers*.”

“Heeeyyyy! Well, at least if you come to stay with us no one will know you aren’t the genuine article. You know, I visited Little Chute once. Went there for the Kermit Festival — but I didn’t see the little green guy anywhere, or Miss Piggy either — just a lotta folks clomping around in wooden shoes, with tulips stuck in their baseball caps.”

“Kermis, not Kermit! It just means an outdoor festival in Dutch.”

“Yah, whatever. Now, what’s the matter, anyway?”

“(Sigh!) Money doesn’t grow on the bushes out back, BFF’s aren’t always forever, my creative juices seem to have gotten rancid, I should have taken up Dave Barry on his offer after all, and I might as well apply the Christmas cookies directly to my hips, since they’re going to end up there anyway. “

“Yah, those are problems, all right. But, how is living in the ice shanty going to fix ’em, do you s’pose?”

“Well, I think I just need a change of scenery — new vistas produce new writing fodder, you know?”

“That might take care of the rancid juices, but I don’t know if it will help the cookie-hips problem much. But tell you what: you pack your duffel bag and c’mon up, and I’ll have Merle Haggard singin’ Everybody Gets the Blues and If We Make It Through December on the tape deck in the shanty to cheer you up when you get here.”